


freedom

by robinlikeitshot



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dysphoria, Gen, Good Sibling Dick Grayson, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Implied Transphobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mentioned Cassandra Cain, Self-Indulgent, Trans Tim Drake, deadnaming (in asteriks), hair cutting, mentioned kon el
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29519838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinlikeitshot/pseuds/robinlikeitshot
Summary: The first lock of hair that falls to the floor feels like he’s Atlas finally freed.
Kudos: 130





	freedom

**Author's Note:**

> wasnt og going to post this, but it helped me to write it, maybe it'll help someone else to read it  
> unbetaed, so pls excuse the spelling errors lol. i hope you like it!  
> enjoy:)

When his parents come home a month early, Tim’s sitting in the living room wearing one of Bart’s oversized T-shirts, Dick’s sweats, and Cass’s dance team sweatshirt and playing Minecraft with Kon over voice chat. He is very much not prepared for his mother to storm in through the entryway, set her bag down with a huff, and almost drop her purse when she sees him.

 _“Man, I’ve got an extra diamond axe if you—_ ”

Tim will feel bad about hanging up on his best friend later, much later, when his dad isn’t choking on his drink the moment he catches sight of him. “****, what in the world are you—are you—”

Putting his hands up placatingly, Tim quickly pulls out Robin’s quick thinking, says, “I just woke up! I haven’t uh, changed out of sleep clothes yet, sorry, I didn’t know you’d be home so soon.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Tim offers up a sheepish smile.

His mother doesn’t take the bait. “A young lady should always look presentable, especially in her own home.”

Tim frowns, eyes slanting downwards so he doesn’t have to look the words of ‘ _young lady_ ’ in the face. “But, uhm, there was no one home anyway, Mrs. Mac left for her vacation a week ago, so uh, so like why do I have to when I’m alone too?” he manages to stutter out, barely restraining himself from scuffing the carpet.  
Instead of giving him an answer, his mother’s lips turn down in a stern frown. “Don’t backtalk to me, ****. I am your mother, and I expect you to respect me.”

“Yes, Mo—”

“And look me in the eye when you speak to me.”

Swallowing, Tim looks up, meets his mother’s hard gaze. Practically whispers, “Yes, Mom.”

She just raises her brow, passing Jack her purse when he made to leave after giving Tim a much too hard ruffle of his hair. “Do we need to reschedule you for your enunciation classes, ****? Goodness, I can barely hear you.”

Tim keeps silent, eyes fixed just somewhere above her perfectly manicured eyebrows. “And I expect you up at 5 A.M every day. Laziness does not become a woman, ****,” she continues, turning and walking down the hallway to her room. Tim, as per the unspoken instructions, picks up her suitcase and follows. 

“My school is actually online now, Mom, so uh, it actually starts at 8—”

Another look shuts him off and Tim resolves to keep his mouth shut for the rest of the night. “You can help your father with the quarterly reports until then. And while we are gone, I will expect daily reports of your intern evaluations.”

“My intern—”

“Yes, yes, ****,” she says exasperatedly, pulling her shoes off as she enters his parents’ room, “I sent you an email concerning matters over a week ago.”

“I didn’t,” Tim’s breathing is getting just a little tighter, not enough to be noticable, but—“uhm, I didn’t—”

“Don’t stutter, ****. And stay on top of things next time, you’ll have a lot to catch up on now,” she says, matter of factly as she pulls her heavy earrings out, placing them on her vanity.

Tim doesn’t know what to say. He’s been reloading his email folder for over two weeks now, just in case his parents had sent that Christmas email they’d promised to send. But he knows better than to argue. “Yes, Mom.”

She stops then, in the process of pulling her necklace off. Turns to him, grimacing just slightly at his clothes again. “But I know you’ll be able to do it, ******, my smart girl.” Tim forces a smile when she pats his cheek with her blood red nails. “You’ll be fine, now. Oh, and don’t worry about dinner tonight, we’ve been invited to the Wayne New Years Gala, and I expect you to be in appropriate clothing by eight.”

At this point she turns around and enters the bathroom, locking the door behind her and leaving Tim still reeling from the whiplash. He mutters a little, “Yes, Mom,” before trudging his way out of the room.

On the way up to his room, he encounters his dad, who informs him in gruff tones to pick up his electronics from the couch, and that just because Mrs. Mac wasn’t here for the week didn’t mean he shouldn’t remember to pick up after himself. Tim gives him a nod, before practically running back to his room to wrap himself in his Nightwing blanket.

It’s five o’clock now, meaning that he had three hours, well, two before his mom came up to decide what he was going to wear. God, this was going to _suck_ , he hadn’t even had any time to prepare himself! And of course, New Years couldn’t have been yesterday, when he had been feeling decidedly more comfortable with the elastic of the skirt hanging off his hips. No, it had to be _today_ when the thrumming beneath his skin had only quelled a little when he finally wrestled his binder over his chest.

All in all, Tim feels like absolute shit. Cass’s soft humming is too loud in his mind for him to take any of his other more drastic coping mechanisms to try and distract himself, though, so instead he just. Takes a nap.

And wakes up to his mom practically breaking his door down.

“Sorry, sorry!” he exclaims, jumping out of his blanket pile to quickly fumble with his door handle. Fuck, of course he’d forgotten to unlock it, his mom always hated it when he did that.

“Sorry,” he breathes out one more time when his mom storms in, marching to his dresser without a look at him.

“****, you aren’t even dressed yet, look at the time!”

It’s six forty-five. His mother is dressed in a dark blue dress, with floral prints climbing up the back of it, her make-up impeccable, hair up in twisty up-do. Tim rubs the sleep out of his eyes, and follows her to where she’s perusing his dresser (and he is ever more thankful that he moved his less ‘appropriate’ clothing to the chest underneath his bed).

“Go clean up, ****,” she orders, pulling two dresses out and holding them up to the light coming through his windows. Tim bites back the urge to throw up and goes into his bathroom.

Slowly, avoiding his own reflection in the mirror, Tim pulls off his sweater, letting it drop on the floor next to last night’s sweater, that one a gift from Steph. Turning around completely so he doesn’t have to chance any accidental glances at himself, he pulls his binder off, pulling it out from under his T-shirt.

_Deep breaths. Remember your training, Tim._

Pulling off his T-shirt and sweats once he’s in the shower, out of view of the mirror, he quickly scrubs down, barely giving any attention to the heavy hair hanging down his back. Grabbing blindly for his towel, Tim stumbles out and spends about twenty seconds trying to brush the knots out of his wet hair because he’d forgotten to do it before.

After giving up on his fifth attempt, Tim wraps the towel under his arms and makes his way back into his room. His mom’s already left, but a bright yellow dress, with a pleated, billowy skirt flowing out from a pastel blue belt is laid on top of his bed, next to a small pile of jewelry and three make-up palettes. Tim takes another deep breath.

It can’t be this hard, right? Hell, he wore _lipgloss_ the other day, and he even liked it! Steph offered to let him borrow one of her shades and he _agreed_. So why was the idea of the tiny bit of cleavage that dress was going to show making him want to _rip_ his _fucking skin off_?  
. He can do this. He’s _Robin_. He can handle a dress.

Twenty minutes, multiple make-up wipes thrown in the trash, and stabbing himself with the earring spokes multiple times later, Tim realizes that he very much cannot handle this.

He looks pretty. The blush is high on his cheeks, the liner brings out his eyes, the dress swishes softly around his knees, hair in soft locks and falling over his shoulders. Tim _hates_ it. Still, he can’t cry, not now that he’s got his mascara put on. 

Tim’s fine, he’s fine because he has to be, for his parents, for Bruce, who’s inevitably going to be there, and especially because his mom has just walked into his room while he’s grimacing at himself in the mirror, and giving out soft coos.

“Oh, ******, don’t you look absolutely beautiful! My sweet baby, you’re all grown up now,” she exclaims, and for a second Tim thinks she might even be getting teary. Tim also really wishes she’d left out a jacket or pullover for him to wear, because this neckline was really low.

“Thank you, Mom.”

“Alright baby, I’ve got your shoes here,” and Tim’s eyes widen at the four inch heels she sets on the ground, “we’ll be leaving in five minutes, be ready to go by then.”

“Yes, Mom.”

She leaves. Tim spends five minutes scrolling through dumb cat memes Kon’s sent him to try and cheer him up, before his dad calls from downstairs and he slips the shoes on, wobbling down the stairs to the car.

He sits in the backseat, his parents in the front. His dad drives.

“You look very nice, ****.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

His parents continue to exchange hushed conversations throughout the eight minute ride up to Wayne Manor, but that’s about the extent that they converse with him.  
When they finally reach, an attendant rushes forward to open their doors, the pap that had gotten access to the exclusive Wayne event and also daring to bear the bitter wind snapping a few shots of the Drake family entering the mansion proper.

The ballroom that they’re lead to is decidedly packed full, glittering chandeliers shining on the shiny marble floors that Tim’s heels make distinctive clicking sounds on. His parents give him a nod, a silent whisper of ‘ _don’t disappoint us_ , before disappearing into the crowds.

Tim can see Bruce, schmoozing somewhere across the ballroom, and Jason staking a spot near the snack tables nearby, but he doesn’t go up to them. Because some ugly part of himself doesn’t want them to see him like this, to see him when he can hardly bear to see himself.

Gritting his teeth into a smile, Tim decides to make at least eight laps around the ballroom before asking his parents if he could walk home. Before he can even get halfway through half his first round though, a boy’s hand catches his elbow, stopping him.

Tim is Robin, and Robin knows about forty ways to get the boy behind him on the ground in under twenty seconds. But Tim can’t be Robin right now, Tim has to be _****_ , so he just turns around and gives the boy a smile.

The kid (who Tim notices is probably two inches taller than him, even _with_ the heels) has on a cocky smirk that makes Tim’s punching arm itchy. “Ms. Drake, right? I was wondering if I could catch you for a dance?”

Right. This was supposed to be a dance. If it wasn’t the son of the CEO his parents were hoping to form a contract with, Tim could have politely declined and ran off to where Alfred was inevitably making something sweet and warm, saving some just for him. However, since his parents are somehow giving him a look from about half a room away, “Of course, Thomas. It’s alright if I call you Thomas, right?” His voice is lilty and high, and he almost wants to choke himself, but he buries that feeling behind another soft little laugh.

“It’s wonderful. You look beautiful tonight, ****.” Tim wouldn’t mind the hands that rest on his waist usually, but with the way the boy’s eyes have begun straying a little too _down_ , well.

“I—thank you. You’re looking very handsome tonight, too.” He’s. Fine.

“You’re beginning your first year at Gotham University this year, aren’t you, ****? I’m actually in my third year there, I could show you around sometime if y—”

“Tim.”

“—ou’d like—what?”

“Um. Please, call me Tim. It’s a, uh, a nickname that my friends use.”

The boy’s gaze doesn’t unfurrow, but he does nod, albeit slowly. “Uh, yeah sure. Tim. So uh, yeah right. Actually, Tim, I think this song is over! And I think I’ve got people waiting on me, so, I hate to do this, I’m really sorry, but uh, I think—”

 _Smile_. “Yeah, no, of course. That’s fine. Perhaps I’ll see you later?”

The boy tries for a smile, but it doesn’t come out right as he nods. “Yeah, yeah sure. Have a good night, Ms. Drake.”

Before Tim can make his way to the snack table and complain about how sorry he feels to Jason, though, an attendant comes up and taps him on his arm.

“Ms. Drake? Your parents asked me to inform you that they’d left early, and were not returning home. They said they’d left more detailed information at your home, but to not expect them for the following week.”

 _Fucking, fine_. “Okay, thank you for telling me.”

Tim really wants to go home. He could ask Bruce, or even Barbara, he’s sure the woman is here somewhere, but he doesn’t think he can, at the moment. So instead he just. He leaves.

It’s so _cold_ , and the walk between the two manor’s just as long. It takes Tim a solid twenty minutes to finally reach home, and he’s already stopped shivering by then. He turns on the lights after letting himself inside, revealing the impersonal note on the coffee table informing him that they’d gotten a call and had to leave to view some excavations in Argentina. Of course.

Tim turns the lights back off and goes upstairs, goes into his room. Leaves his purse on his bed, and walks into the bathroom with shaking hands. He locks the door behind him.

This time he looks at himself. Dolled up, flashing jewels at his neck, his ears, hands. Carefully, slowly, he pulls them off one by one. Zips himself out of the dress and pulls on Cass’ sweatshirt. Washes the make-up with his remover. But he can still feel the spiders practically crawling beneath his skin, cutting his voice off. Can still see the line of his jaw, the faint smudge of mascara around his eyes, his hair still wrapping around his neck, choking him till all that comes out is a reedy, soft, pretty little voice—

There’s scissors, in a cabinet under the sink, tucked away behind a towel. He takes them out, swallows, the thin white lines on his arms so prominent, his sister’s voice in his head so _loud_.

Tim can’t. He can’t because they’ll know, and they won’t be mad, or disappointed, they’ll just swaddle him in blankets and ply him with hot chocolate and watch old Disney channel reruns till he passes out but he _knows_ , knows how much it hurts them to see him hurt. And he can’t.

So instead, he changes the angle of his scissors and slashes _up_.

The first lock of hair that falls to the floor feels like he’s Atlas finally freed. Another, another, quiet snips, before they’re drowned out by an ugly sound that Tim realizes is _him_ , deep wrenching sounds that force tears to blur his vision. The scissors still don’t stop, though, just keep releasing the weight on his head, long dark locks falling silently on the ground.

Tim stands there for another six minutes before he looks up again, looks at himself in the mirror.

He looks like a mess. A raccoon made a nest in his hair mess. His eyes are red, and so are his cheeks, and there’s still water dripping down onto some of the strands sticking to his cheeks. But the thrum in his skin has settled. Because he looks like a mess, but he doesn’t really look like a girl.

Wiping at his eyes, Tim grasps at his phone, doing what he should have done probably the moment his parents came home. He calls Bruce.

 _“Hello, Tim_ ” and he can hear the sounds of the crowd in the background, Bruce must have left to pick up his call, “ _are you okay?”_

“I’m,” his voice breaks, and he clears it, trying again, “Could um. Could someone maybe uh, pick me up maybe,” he mumbles, sliding down to the floor mat, back up against the sink.

 _“Of course, Tim. Dick will be there in five minutes. Is that okay_ ,” is the immediate reply.

“Yes, thank you, Bruce.”

 _“Anytime, Tim_.”

— _Beep_

Dick’s there in four, still in his Nightwing suit. He finds Tim, crouched over in the bathroom, locks of hair scattered around him, but all he does is gently grasp his arms, and tug him up, right into his warm arms.

“C’mere, Timmy,” he murmurs, and if Tim wasn’t all out of tears that night, he’s sure that he would have started sobbing again. A hand brushes through his hair, feeling practically foreign as it pulls out lumps of hair that he hadn’t shaken out yet. “Wanna go home, little brother?”

Tim nods. Dick carries him out of his parents’ house, holding him as if he were a child to the car he’s got haphazardly parked outside the entrance. Tim’s placed into the passenger’s seat, and soon enough they’re rolling into the Cave.

Alfred’s there waiting, but once he gets the confirmation that Tim does not have any physical injuries, they make their way up together. The man very carefully does not mention his hair.

When they reach the family sitting room, Tim wants to melt at the heat emanating from the room, which Dick obviously notices, setting him in the armchair closest to the fireplace. After exchanging a few words with Alfred, the man drops in the chair next to him, arms worming around him to hug him close. “Bruce has to crowd control for a little while longer, but he's going to be here soon, okay little brother?”

Tim nods, pressing his face closer into Dick’s chest.

Jason chooses that time to conveniently walk in. “Oh hey Timbo!” the man says, ignoring Dick as immediately snatches the post-mission cookies Alfred has set out on the coffee table. “Why’d you bounce so soon, I—”

The man turns, and catches sight of his absolute abomination of hair. His eyes soften for about a second before the crinkle back up in a grin. “Now, Timmy, I know you’ve gotten Robin now, but surely you gotta know the nest is supposed to be down, not up on your head.”

Dick smacks him with a pillow, but Tim surprises all of them when he gives a soft huff of laughter. “Hey, it’s not like I’m exactly well-versed in hair-cutting,” he says, accepting Dick’s offer of a cookie.

Jason flops into a chair next to them. “Ya know, I used to do my own hair when I was on my own as Red Hood. I could give you a hand, if you’d like. Clean it up a little.”

Tim’s mouth falls open. “You’d,” and he’d forgotten to deepen it again, “You’d do that?”

The laugh that follows is probably one of the best things Tim’s ever heard. “’Course, Timmy. I think I actually got my razor set in the manor right now—”

And that’s the story of how, despite Dick’s multiple complaints that he’d be able to do it much better, Tim’s standing in front of Jason’s bathroom mirror, holding Dick’s hands in his own, as the humm of the razor gently glides across his scalp.

The top had been somewhat slavagable, and it hangs over his forehead even after Jason sweeps it back. The sides are short, so short Tim can almost see his scalp. His neck itches, from the little hairs that have fallen. He’s going to have to wash his sweatshirt.

Tim can’t help the little smile, as Jason carefully trims his edges, especially when it prompts Dick’s absolute beam. Because looking in the mirror, at the, at the _boy_ in the mirror, he doesn’t feel sad, or sorry, or like sitting in the empty bathtub for six hours. Tim feels—he feels.

Tim feels happy, happy like the expression on his brother’s face as he presses a kiss to his knuckles. He feels loved, loved in the furrow of concentration between Jay’s brows as he carefully gels his hair back. Warm, warm in the sweater he’s wrapped in, warm in Dick’s bright eyes, warm in the gentle ruffle Jason gives his hair as he sets the razor down.

Warm in the way the boy in the mirror finally, finally feels okay.


End file.
